Dulce et Decorum
by Laine Montgomery
Summary: Queen Sansa Baratheon asks Jaime Lannister for his assistance in a matter of great importance.  Alternate universe, Jaime/Sansa.


The Queen's conspicuous absence from the high table could have but one meaning.

He saw it in the furrows of Cersei's brow, wrinkles that she'd surely spend hours observing in her looking glass and for which she'd chastise herself over and over again.

He heard it in the petulant nasality of the King's tone, an unpleasant tendency carried over from childhood. He placed his glass down too forcefully, answered questions too sharply, tightened his jaw muscles and crinkled his emerald eyes in a scowl.

Jaime hoped idly that such an off-putting expression had never crossed his own face- even Lannister good looks could do little to make it attractive.

Three children in eight months. The maesters swore up and down that the Queen's womb had quickened each time, but thrice the maidservants had skulked down the corridors, arms filled with crimson-stained bedclothes. Thrice the King had stormed into his wife's chambers, the sounds of his rage ricocheting off the parapets. Jaime, safely ensconced within the White Tower, felt grateful for his position, grateful for his ability to plead ignorance.

He never had much of a stomach for the suffering of women.

* * *

><p>Queen Sansa of Houses Stark and Baratheon returned to the great hall upon the morrow. She donned one of the high-necked gowns she favored, with a bodice and collar that covered all but her face - a style that was, to the chagrin of many a knight of the Kingsguard, gaining popularity among the young women of the court.<p>

Her pretty face appeared pale and wan, but she managed to maintain her sense of social decorum, chatting pleasantly with the courtiers seated nearby. If she noticed Joffrey's unwillingness to acknowledge her presence, she made no indication. For his part, the King seemed pointedly engrossed in one of his wife's ladies-in-waiting, his hands roaming freely over her bodice, snaking around her hips to pull her onto his lap.

Jaime remembered Robert Baratheon, and the similarities caused his stomach to roil.

After the final course, the young Queen asked her husband's leave to retire. Joffrey, having finally worked his way to the laces of his comely companion's gown, answered her with a dismissive wave. She gestured to Sandor Clegane, who began to rise from his chair before the King abruptly commanded him to stay. "Sit, Dog," he snapped, verdant eyes sweeping across the table. "I've seen the way you look at her, as though she were a juicy bone." The Hound set his jaw, but obeyed the King's command. Joffrey turned his gaze toward Jaime. "My uncle will escort her."

Sansa moved toward her husband, hand outstretched toward his shoulder...but he struck her hand away, and the cracking sound precipitated a collective shudder from all at the table. Jaime rose then, crossing to the Queen and offering his good arm. She let the injured hand fall limply at her side and placed the other in the crook of his elbow. As they left the Great Hall, Jaime thought he saw Cersei meet Sansa's eyes with something akin to pity.

But it may have been a trick of the light.

They crossed the castle wordlessly, the Queen's hand feather-light upon his arm. When they reached the door to her chambers, she thanked him, but her eyes never met his, not fully. Overcome by some sudden madness, Jaime placed his hand upon her stricken one, lifting it into the light. As if anticipating his question, she spoke quietly: "It is not broken. Pay it no mind."

His Lannister-green eyes worked over her face, that still, exquisite, impassive mien. In the dim light, her shining cheeks and chapped lips made her look every bit the girl that she was. His voice sounded distant when he said: "Take care...be well, my lady."

The words felt false in his mouth, and he immediately regretted speaking them aloud.

Suddenly, her Tully-blue eyes were on him, fixing his face with an indiscernable intensity. She held the gaze for longer than was appropriate, and he wondered vaguely if she'd slipped into some sort of a spell.

But then she was gone, coppery hair shining in the torchlight as her door lurched shut.

* * *

><p>She found him after a council session, implored him to speak privately. He couldn't well refuse her, although every fiber of his person wished to do just that. <em>I don't want to know, I don't want to know.<em>

He expected her tears, expected a reveal of her injuries, expected a plea for his protection as the Kingsguard's Lord Commander. He had an answer prepared- flimsy and stiffly courteous, but an answer nonetheless.

The words that fell from her lips, however, were nothing he could ever have anticipated.

"I must bear my husband a child, Ser Jaime. I _must_. But the King..." She swallowed deeply, clearly uncertain of how to proceed- "He...he cannot. He never will."

"But.." Jaime struggled to find a delicate way to phrase his next question, but eventually abandoned the attempt and pressed on: "...how can you know that the fault lies with him?"

Sansa's eyes grew dark as she explained, as she told of the King's many mistresses, five of whom had grown large with child within the year, none of whom had carried her babe to term. "The seed will not take root. He refuses to see it, and the blame falls on me." Her fingers flew to her collar, nimbly undoing the laces. The fabric fell away, exposing her decolletage, and Jaime could not stifle a wince at the sight. The soft white skin, marred by greying bruises, gnarled scars, spots of lividity.

She did not turn away, did not spare him. Her voice contained a hard edge of northern determination when she spoke again: "If I do not bear a child soon, he will surely kill me. I've no doubt." She stepped closer to him, the shine in her eyes almost frightening. "I will _not _die that way, Ser Jaime."

He let the words hang in the air for a moment, echoing in his ears, more powerful each time. He knew what she wanted of him, wondered whether he would make her ask. But the tilt of her head, the rise of her shoulders- she looked so like Catelyn Stark. The bitterness of his failure, his broken oath clanged at his very core...he would spare her whatever cruelty he could.

Jaime Lannister leaned forward, bending his knees slightly until his gaze was level with the Queen's. "Why me?"

She took a barely discernible step, closing the gap between their bodies. He could feel himself beginning to react to the proximity- he angled his hips away, forcing his eyes to remain squarely focused upon her face. He very nearly gasped when her hand closed around his left wrist.

Her voice remained as still as her expression. "You know Joffrey. If I bear a child who does not favor him, he's like to smother it at birth, and me with it." She paused, and her grip tightened on his arm. "And you look so like him."

He bit back the bitter urge to laugh.

Jaime intended to protest, intended to explain that what she asked was high treason, that they would both be killed if they were found out- _but was it treason with Cersei? Best not to think of that_... The words stopped in his throat. Here was his opportunity to fulfill his oath- surely not how Catelyn Stark ever intended, but in a manner nonetheless. For the sake of the promise, he would do for this queen as he had done for his sister thrice over- _the seed is strong_. He felt strangely light, almost drunk with a sense of purpose.

_Sansa Stark is my last chance for honor._

* * *

><p>Several days passed before he came to her. He monitored the King's activities closely, waited for him to retire for the night with a courtesan before making his way to the Queen's chambers. A knight of the Kingsguard could pass without suspicion- <em>isn't that how I always had access to Cersei? <em>He'd tried in vain to expel Cersei from his mind before quickly realizing the futility.

_It would be easier if Sansa Stark had fair hair. Alas._

She met him at the door of her bedchamber, clothed in a silken wisp of a robe, her abundant ruddy hair tumbling about her shoulders. He shed his cloak, perched on the edge of her bed in his tunic and breeches, determined not to stare at the markings all over her body.

She handed him a goblet filled with sour red wine. He drained his glass, and she immediately refilled it. They drank in silence, the Queen standing beside him, matching him round for round. The effects came upon her suddenly, and she lost her footing. He caught her around the waist, fingers splaying over her abdomen.

Her mouth on his was surprisingly forceful- he fell back against the cushions, allowing her to straddle his hips. She tasted of wine and a vague tang of iron; she had a habit of gnawing at her inner cheeks until they bled.

The scent of her skin, the weight of her body was unfamiliar and not a little jarring, but he found himself aroused nonetheless. He flipped her on her back, rather more forcefully than he'd intended, and he tried to ignore the flash of panic in her eyes.

He stroked her hair as he would the mane of a skittish horse. When her breathing slowed, he trailed his lips down the white column of her neck, scattering kisses over her full breasts and flat stomach. He initially tried to avoid the bruises, but he soon found a perverse thrill in the jerk of her body under his mouth when he laved his tongue over the purple splotches.

He wondered when he'd become so depraved.

She pulled him up the length of her body, positioning him between her legs. A deep kiss, tongues mingling together in a fervent dance, and he entered her with little resistance. Her hands were everywhere- on his shoulders, his back, his face- he rocked backward, taking her with him, his lips closing around a nipple as she moved up and down along his length.

She sighed, a light sound of pleasure, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

After he had spent himself, he found that he was quite content to lie there beside her, holding her head as she nestled into his chest. He should leave, needed to leave, couldn't be caught there in the morning...but the wrongness, the taboo of it all felt delicious in a way that should have lost all appeal many years ago. Besides...the room was warm, the girl's body soft, the air heavy.

He could not help but feel entitled to a peaceful night's sleep.

* * *

><p>Soft morning light filtered through the draperies, bathing the Queen's bedchamber with an ethereal glow. Ser Jaime Lannister propped his golden head on his golden hand as he watched the girl asleep beside him. Tangled auburn curls, dark against her white, white skin. The tips of her eyelashes were paler than he'd thought, almost as light as his own had been in childhood. A light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, matching the patches he'd found on her left shoulder, right hipbone and lower back.<p>

She exhaled heavily in her sleep, and her lips curved up into a soft smile. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the Queen smile, and he felt an unfamiliar lurch in his chest at the sight.

He couldn't help himself- he kissed her awake, lips moving over her eyes, her high cheekbones, tongue wheedling its way into her mouth. She opened her eyes only a little, lifted her hands to smooth his hair back, wrapped her legs around his waist.

Every movement felt like a dream, as though his body belonged to someone else. And yet nothing was unsettled, nothing perturbed...this vague, remote haziness was more pleasant than he could ever explain.

Sansa moved her lips to his ear, whispered her thanks over and over again.

He pushed her into the downy pillows, kissing her hard until the words stopped completely.

_A Lannister always pays his debts._

* * *

><p>Joffrey announced the news some time later, while dining with a small collection of family members. He placed his hand firmly on his wife's waist, a threatening glint in his eyes even as he smiled.<p>

His wife was with child, yes, but the news must stay among family, at least until her stomach began to swell. The King kissed the Queen's coronet of ruddy hair, and Jaime was sure that no one else would notice her flinch.

Sansa folded her hands over her abdomen, eyes downcast, face serene. She avoided Jaime's gaze, and he did not have to wonder why.

He let his mind work over the troubling nature of it all- Joffrey, his spawn, who had always felt leagues away from him, would be the nominal father of Jaime's child...the King's son, his own half-brother. _Four children I've fathered now, none of whom are mine. _The thought stung more than he'd anticipated, and he drank heavily from his glass, ignoring the quizzical expression on Cersei's face- he'd never much cared for wine.

A hand closed softly over his, and he nearly jumped from his seat. The Queen focused her eyes forward, still with that beatific smile on her face, one hand still clasped over her midsection. He turned his hand over, pressed his palm to hers, and he watched through peripheral vision as her smile broadened.

For the time being, at least, Sansa Stark would be safe, protected by the child growing in her womb.

For Lady Catelyn, for Brienne, for the girl herself...he'd done that much.

* * *

><p>Sansa Stark in Winterfell, the home of her childhood, the home of her heart, the home that was and would always be.<p>

Months since she'd fled from her husband's castle, months since she rode north with a small but committed army, months since she'd deposed the filth living in her father's house, reclaiming the seat that had been hers all along.

Weeks earlier, she received word of what had befallen the denizens of King's Landing. Joffrey was dead, brutally slaughtered by the dragon queen's powerful army as he attempted to escape. The King's brother and sister were political prisoners- Sansa hoped beyond hope that the queen would realize their innocence and pardon them, blameless children that they were.

Jaime and Cersei Lannister were found dead, lying side by side, Jaime's hands still wrapped around Cersei's ivory throat. There was nothing Sansa could have done, nothing that anyone could have done...she had to remind herself of that from time to time.

Her stomach jostled and she wrapped her arms tightly around it, slumping her shoulders forward until her forearms rested atop the sizable bulge. Through the travels, the fighting, the world tearing itself apart, the child within her thrived, would be born hale and healthy, vigorous as a wolf cub should be.

_Or a lion cub..._

She stifled the melancholy that threatened to coil itself around her heart, instead leaning her face out the window, breathing the cold winter air, deeper and deeper until it stung her throat.

_I will be mother and father both, and my son shall be the Stark in Winterfell after I am gone._

_The first Stark in generations with golden hair and green eyes...but a Stark nonetheless._

* * *

><p>Daenerys Targaryen, the Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, High Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the Lands Beyond the Sea, arrived in Winterfell four months after the birth of Eddard Brandon Stark.<p>

Sansa had expected the visit, steeled herself for it since the day she first held her son in her arms. She clung to the child now, holding him tightly against her heart, one hand smoothing rhythmically over his downy pale head.

The Queen settled herself into an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair, her exquisite, curiously-colored eyes impassive.

"You know that I trust in your fealty, Lady Sansa."

"I am glad to hear it, Your Gra- Your Majesty." The new royal address felt strange in Sansa's mouth, but she infused it with all the sincerity she could muster. The dragon queen straightened her posture even further- although she was a physically diminutive woman, her presence felt too large for the small, sunny room in the rear tower. Sansa wished idly that she'd met the Queen in the Great Hall instead.

"I trust you, Lady Sansa. But your son is another matter completely."

"My son is just a babe." She spat the words out more curtly than she'd intended, but if the Queen noticed, she made no indication.

"Babes do not stay babes forever. You know that as well as I." Daenerys leaned forward, flaxen hair falling over her shoulder as she fixed the baby with a hard stare. "He is small now, but how can I allow Joffrey Baratheon's son to grow into manhood? What am I to do when he decides to avenge his father?"

Sansa's heart smacked feverishly against her breastbone, a red flush creeping over her chest, her cheeks, her ears. She clenched her hands around the baby's plush little body, squeezing until he squeaked in objection. Her grip loosened, and she cradled him in the crook of her arm. She let the queen register the sight of Sansa Stark, the earth mother, all flowing hair and ample breasts, her sweet golden child radiant in the winter sunlight.

When she spoke again, her voice held all the chilly determination expected of a northern ruler:

"This child has no father."

Blue eyes bore into violet, and Sansa was surprised to see the queen's lips curve into a smile.

* * *

><p>Soon after little Ned's fifth name day, Sansa found herself back at King's Landing.<p>

The Queen was hosting a jubilee in celebration of the first five years of her glorious reign. Sansa was loath to leave Winterfell, but her absence would be interpreted as a grave insult.

She needed to do whatever she could to keep herself in the Queen's favor, after all.

In spite of his mother's reluctance, Ned Stark, heir to Winterfell, could not have been more delighted to take the journey. He clambered along on his fat little pony, red-gold hair gleaming brilliantly in the springtime sunlight, green eyes eager and excited.

When they rode past the gates, viewing the castle head-on for the first time, the little boy gasped in awe.

The former Queen felt a sting of bile in her throat at the sight of her former home, but she choked it down.

"Can we go by the White Tower, Mother?" Ned wheedled, tugging at Sansa's heavy skirts. "I want to see where the knights of the Kingsguard live."

"You'll see the knights at the tourney tomorrow, my love." She ruffled the child's abundant curls and could not suppress a laugh at his indignant expression.

"But I wish to see them now! I'm going to be a knight soon, you know."

"Are you now?" Sansa bent her knees until she met her son at eye-level. "You'll have to grow quite a bit first...you're still many years away."

"Not SO many." Ned pulled his wooden sword out of the scabbard at his waist, waving it about as he spoke. "Jaime Lannister was only fifteen when he joined the Kingsguard."

And Sansa lost her balance, nearly tumbling into the dust. Ned laughed heartily at his mother's clumsiness, and she sheepishly thanked the valet who helped her to her feet. "Jaime Lannister?" she murmured- the name hadn't passed her lips in years, and she could not ignore the stinging in her chest that accompanied the syllables.

"Yes. He was a traitor, but he was the best knight in Westeros, and the youngest ever in the Kingsguard. Did you ever see him fight, Mother?"

"I did." She couldn't meet the boy's emerald eyes, and she felt suddenly grateful that he was too young to think anything of it.

"I won't be a traitor, of course, but I'll be as great a knight as him someday." With that, Ned streaked off after Winterfell's master-at-arms, nattering away about the White Tower and the Kingsguard and other such nonsense.

Her son sufficiently disposed, Sansa made her way to the sept. After five years firmly ensconced in Winterfell, she'd become unused to houses of worship.

The High Queen had removed much of the decorative frippery; the room no longer resembled the ornate chamber where she'd been wedded to Joffrey. _Thank the Gods for that._

She stepped to the altar, selected a single candle, lit it for Jaime Lannister.

She tried to think of a prayer, a blessing, anything at all, but Sansa Stark, lady of Winterfell, survivor of the war, mother of a beautiful son, could think of only one thing to say to the man whose memory she'd tried to desperately to banish. She knew the words would sound hollow if she spoke them aloud, but she uttered them all the same:

"Thank you."

_Fin_


End file.
